Of Monsters and Men
by I'llbeyourPatronus
Summary: Alone has never been a problem for them, it was never something that they could not do if it was necessary, but after the fall, it is excruciating to be apart. Sonfic for Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men. Not strictly slash, but not entirely platonic.


Title: Of Monsters and Men  
Summary: Alone has never been a problem for them, it was never something that they could not do if it was necessary, but after the fall, it is excruciating to be apart. Sonfic for_ Little Talks_ by Of Monsters and Men. Not strictly slash, but not entirely platonic either.  
Rating: T for dark themes  
Disclaimer: Sadly, I own no part of the BBC's Sherlock, the song _Little talks_, nor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's eternal characters Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I just like to play with them.

* * *

_Hey! Hey! Hey!_

_I don't like walking around this old and empty house._

He pushes at the door slowly, a low creak interrupting the silence of the flat. There is a stillness to the room that shouldn't be allowed, a quiet that it has never known. It is much too hard to match the familiarity of 221b with what has happened in the last few weeks. All of the life left Baker street when Sherlock did, leaving an empty shell in his absence, a shadow of its former life, broken and alone. Yet, in the aftermath, 221b isn't the only thing damaged.

_So hold my hand, I'll walk with you my dear_

It took John much longer than Sherlock had imagined to resume life at Baker street. He did not foresee his death affecting the doctor so tragically. Mycroft had allowed him to keep tabs on the other man through CCTV footage and various cameras he had had set up around the flat and building. _'For safety purposes of course, it wouldn't do to have the two of them running about without proper supervision now would it?'_He had sneered at his brother when he was first presented with the videos, although looking over John's first return to their flat, he could not find himself too terribly upset at the intrusion.

To see the normally cheerful army doctor so distraught- over his faked passing no less- made Sherlock ache with the full force of their separation. But he had this to comfort him when the distance became too much, he had proof that John was safe, and while not completely whole, _alive._ John had nothing of the sort.

_The stairs creak as I sleep,_

_it's keeping me awake_

He looks up at the darkened ceiling, the familiar tint of the night sky outside doing nothing to quell the anguish in his heart. He keeps expecting to hear the mournful notes of a violin, the tinkling of test tubes being shuffled about, the unmistakable sounds of a body that never rests. There is nothing in his absence, and John feels the pain of it most desperately at times like this. Instead he hears sounds that he has not for a long time, the rushing of cars outside his window, of a city that never fully shuts down, the clunking of pipes, and the gentle murmur of Mrs Hudson's telly downstairs. It is unsettling to think that he had found Sherlock's fidgeting so soothing, that his noises of unrest lulled John to sleep more often than not.

_It's the house telling you to close your eyes_

The train clacks against the rails rhythmically as Sherlock looks out of the window towards the blackened heavens. He reminds himself that it is still the same sky John looks to when he cannot sleep, so why is it that he feels so pained leaving London behind? His work has taken him elsewhere, he knows that what he is doing is what is right, but he thinks of John so shattered, and knows also that he must fix what he has broken, that it is now his turn to care for John.

_Some days I can't even dress myself._

He's gone from the flat almost as much as he is there. Sometimes it is too much, and he flees the memories threatening to engulf him. He'll stay away for days, until that also proves to be too much to handle. Other times he will not leave Baker street at all, too brought down with fatigue to move. The simplest of things can break him down now, things he hadn't known that he had associated with Sherlock making him crumble. Commonplace things that he normally would have overlooked making his eyes swim with tears. He is fragile in a way that nothing before has made him, not the alcohol-fueled destruction of his family, and not the terror of war. It is bitterly hilarious that Sherlock Holmes, the man that fixed the broken veteran he once was, could have made him this way.

_It's killing me to see you this way._

He is promised regular updates on John in the exchange of accepting Mycroft's help, yet the information he receives is almost as painful as his elder brother's smug superiority in this one weakness of his. John is not coping well. On the contrary, he seems to be worsening with each passing day. He is never sure what he will find in the next report, and the deterioration of his friend grieves him. Some days he wants to curl up and bemoan their lost time, others he wants to rush back to his blogger and beg forgiveness for the pain he has put him through. But he does none of this, and the sacrifice is what drives him.

_'Cause though the truth may vary_

_this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore._

_Hey! Hey! Hey!_

John is his motivation for everything these days. He is the catalyst that moves him to continue in his mission to bring down Moriarty's web. Sherlock Holmes was never one to fantasize, but between cutting down the strands of Jim's network he thinks of John and of their reunion, and he hopes that what he is doing is truly for the best.

_There's an old voice in my head_

_that's holding me back_

John is in limbo, stuck between a world where he is whole and a world without Sherlock Holmes. He has thought many times of joining his friend, or of joining the land of the living, yet he is stopped from enjoying either, held in this place of no peace, of no respite from his suffering. He knows that the detective is the cause, as he is the cause of all of John's problems of late, but the knowledge is no comfort to him. He would prefer the quiet of where Sherlock now rests over the pain and responsibility of surviving him.

_Well tell her that I miss our little talks._

Before long the videos are not enough, the reports too short, too vague to be of any help to him. It does not take much before Sherlock finds himself back in London, frequenting their old haunts in the hope of catching sight of John. It is clear in the first few days of this venture that the doctor avoids these areas, so he instead tries to deduce and predict John's whereabouts, hiding in the crowd as his blogger passes him by unaware. Watching from behind his chosen cover as a shadow of what John Watson once was stumbles through his day. The physical evidence of his anguish is somehow worse, and hits the detective hard, proving to him that his mission is of extreme importance, and that it must end soon so that he may come home.

_We used to play outside when we were young_

_and full of life and full of love._

He is called away again, and John is left under the watchful eye of Mycroft and his men. He should be thrilled with the intricacies of his current problem, of the complicated weavings of the consulting criminal's network, but there is nothing in the destruction that captivates him. The Work is now just _work,_ and he does it with a cold detachment that speaks nothing of his usual exuberance. He finds himself longing for the cases of the past, of chasing murderers in blackened alleyways with the soft patter of military trained feet at his heel. If it were in his power to do so, he would trade this reality for the chance to relive his memories, no matter how simple, so long as John was at his side once again.

_Some days I feel like I'm wrong when I am right._

He is lost in a sea of his emotions, and in his misery his mind begins to blur what is real and what is not. His thoughts are muddled, his mind clouded. He begins to see things that are not there, begins to dwell on things of the past. He picks apart their time spent together, separating each small moment into individual actions and occurrences. He begins to over-think their significance, their insignificance, their importance in Sherlock's life. He once considered the two of them equals in their relationship, but it is only too apparent to him now that of the pair it was John that cared more, that felt more. Sherlock was his world, but he was but a satellite caught in orbit to the vast greatness that was the World's only Consulting Detective. He questions whether he was of any importance to the man, if he made any impression at all.

He thinks back to the last time he and Sherlock were face to face, of their last conversation, and his heart breaks once more. He was furious, he had yelled. He had called Sherlock a _machine,_ he had left him alone. Was this in some way his fault? Had he pushed the man to his death? Was the desertion of his only friend the undoing of Sherlock Holmes?

_Your mind is playing tricks on you my dear._

He blames himself. That is all that Sherlock can glean from John's limited conversations with his remaining acquaintances. The thought burns brightly inside the detective's hear; out of all the outcomes he imagined, not one included this. Not once did he think that John might blame himself for his suicide. The pain his friend must feel, the imagined weight of being Sherlock's downfall must be crushing him, as the thought that John believes he hurt him so terribly that he took his fall is inadvertently crushing Sherlock as well.

_'Cause though the truth may vary_

_This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore_

As he continues taking out what remains of Moriarty's men, he finds himself crossing John's path more and more often. Is it coincidence that he finds himself here? He is unsure of anything concerning the doctor anymore, and cherishes the glimpses of the man rather than question it.

If he lingers longer on the step of 221b than he does to snap the neck of a criminal, he finds nothing wrong with his actions.

_Hey!_

_Don't listen to a word I say_

_Hey!_

_The screams all sound the same._

_Hey!_

He tries to convince himself that he will be okay, that he will be whole again. When asked, he will tell others that he is fine, he is over it, past it, he has moved on. It is clear to all that he is nowhere near _fine,_ but no one knows how to help him, they do not know what is needed to mend his broken heart.

His days still blend into one, and John finds no reason in his surroundings. The world no longer makes sense to his grief addled mind, and he in no way tries to understand it.

_Though the truth may vary_

_this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore_

He cannot define his feelings, nor pinpoint the motivation behind them, but swirling in his mind is no longer _facts_ and _clues _and _the chase, _and in their place there is only _John, John, John. _

_You're gone, gone, gone away,_

_I watched you disappear._

_All that's left is a ghost of you._

It would not have mattered if John had not moved back to Baker street, because while he can feel Sherlock in its halls as if he were still real, the old place is not all that reminds him of his lost friend. He sees him in an upturned collar in the cold, in the notes of a song, in the grey of the sky. Sherlock is everywhere, and he is no where.

_Now we're torn, torn, torn apart,_

_there's nothing we can do,_

He does not try to pick up the pieces of his shattered life. He does not date, he does not work. There is no point, and over time the others stop trying to force him. He is left to lament his fallen friend, and nothing is left for him to care for anymore.

_Just let me go, we'll meet again soon._

He watches as John crumples in front of the black stone, falling to his knees at the grave, forehead resting on a cold tombstone as his shoulders shake gently. Seeing the doctor break so entirely, so completely, almost moves Sherlock into action, but it is too soon. He is not done yet, it is not yet safe for them. As he watches one of the strongest men he has ever known breakdown on his grave he makes a silent promise to finish what he has started and return to John, no matter the cost.

_Now wait, wait, wait for me, please hang around_

Sherlock Holmes is a fake, a fraud. That is what he told John, in his desperation to sever what can not be broken. He had hoped that the knowledge may have made his suffering less, the loss of his friend not as harsh, not as real, if he had not been real at all. It became increasingly clear that he misjudged the depth of the army doctor's loyalty. He can see the unwithering belief in what he was in every step John takes, heavy with grief, in every night spent alone and silent in Baker street, in the simplest of actions he can see that his efforts were all for naught.

When he is alone at night in a foreign bed, it is hard for him to feel anything negative in John's continuing trust. He knows that they will be together soon.

_I'll see you when I fall asleep._

As the days drag on, and weeks turn into months John finds it hard recall the exact rumbling timber of Sherlock's baritone, the elegant curve of his cheek, the glint in his eyes. He longs for the night, and when he will visit Sherlock in his dreams.

_Hey!_

_Don't listen to a word I say_

_Hey!_

_The screams all sound the same._

_Hey!_

He realizes somewhere between France and Spain that his actions are purely for John, he unravels for John, he kills for John, he eats for John, he sleeps for John. He breathes for John. He is not sure where he would be without the army doctor, but he hopes that he never need find out.

_Though the truth may vary_

_this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore_

He worries over what will be waiting for him when he does come home, and hopes most desperately that there is still a John to come home to.

_Hey!_

_Don't listen to a word I say_

_Hey!_

_The screams all sound the same._

_Hey!_

Together, apart, before, after. There is no Sherlock, no John, only Sherlock _and_ John. One entity, never separate, joined forever, even after death. They begin to think of their lives as _post_ and _pre, _when the only thing they find important is each other.

_Though the truth may vary_

_this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore_

As he closes in on the last of Moriarty's men dread fills his heart. Will John accept the Sherlock that returns to him? Will they return to what they once were? Is that possible for them now?

After all, not all is forgiven, for not everything that is broken can be fixed.

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http:/ illbeyourpatronus. tumblr. com/ post/23406316211/ hey-hey-hey-i-dont-like-walking-around-this (Remove the spaces)

The only ones that have reblogged deleted the story and kept the song.


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